


The Magnetism of Providence

by CorvidFeathers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abolition AU, Civil War AU, Multi, Slavery, TW: Racial Slurs, TW: Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lesgles was born a free man and he will do anything to get that liberty back.  To Joly it is simple scientific fact that every man deserves liberty and equality.  Musichetta knows what it is like to not be granted equality, but can’t imagine the horrors of not having liberty.  Pre-Civil War Abolition AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Providence was determined to make Lesgles despair.  


It had stolen everything he had grown up with, all of the dreams and ambitions that had somehow, miraculously, been within his reach.  
He had been born a free man and that liberty had been stripped from him.  


Lesgles had always had a vague awareness of how precarious his position was as a free black man, even when his family had lived in the North. He had encountered the hateful looks and insults spit his way every day. His father had ingrained that knowledge into him that there were men who considered his freedom an affront to everything they stood for, and had instilled the skills of survival that had gotten him through many a scrape since.  


The tenuous nature of his freedom had really only been fully realized when his family had moved back to Georgia, when the doctors had said the only hope for his mother was a warmer climate. The swampy, steaming atmosphere seemed to only drag her further into the illness that stifled her lungs and choked out her spirit, and within a year she had been buried.  


His life had always been full of small misfortunes, mislaid clothing and failed hopes, dog bites and falls, but those were mere accidents of life. The events after his mother’s death had convinced him that misfortune had marked him at some point, and would cling to him until the day he died.  


At first life had continued as normal, and his father had spoke of moving back to the North, speaking easily of the temperate climate as if that were his chief concern. But they had been cornered leaving, by a pair of bounty hunters new to the area and on the lookout for runaway slaves. Papers were a mere useless formality, when you matched the description on their bounty sheets.  


Just as easily as that, Lesgles and his father had been returned to their supposed fathers, and within a week he had been separated from his father, and sold off to another Georgian plantation owner.  


It was then the final acceptance of the poor hands fortune leant him was realized, along with the fact that there were men who didn’t just consider his freedom an affront ation- they considered his freedom nothing.  


Despair had been tempting then, thrown into a world so unlike the one he had been raised in, with an iron band around his neck and all sense of human dignity being wrenched from him. Those first few weeks had gone by in a whirl of astonishment, then numb resignation to the horrors. But that resignation which may have become a permanent state for another man, was merely a temporary thought for Lesgles.  


He had always believed firmly that whatever any man might claim, freedom was a right that all deserved. He knew the words of the Consitution, and the documents in other countries that granted freedom universally, at least in name, such as the Rights of Man. It was absurd that the men and women that kept people like him captive contradicted such an obvious truth. So he laughed at them.  


He found humor in everything, in the chafe of the iron manacles, in the cramped slave quarters, in the long hours under the hot sun with the foreman and his whip. He ran away twice, both times was caught within miles of the plantation, and laughed it off when they lashed him within an inch of his life.  


After his second escape attempt, his supposed owners sold him off to a new set of captors.  


These masters were willing to overlook the scars on his back because he had had a sophisticated education, nearly the education of a white man, and was fluent in both French and English. The master, Mr. Marion, has fond memories of going to school in France and considered himself an expert in the history of the country. He often found it agreeable to host French diplomats and scientists making tours of the States, and having an educated slave fluent in their tongue was useful.  


Lesgles was careful this time. He bided his time.  


A bump in the road jerked him out of his thoughts. The horse snorted in protest at the jolt to her harness. Lesgles clucked his tongue, nudging the mare onwards with a flick of the reins. The mare shook her head and plodded forward again.  


The sun was high in the sky above, beating down on the horse and cart. Lesgles had been instructed to ride to the town to buy flour and other necessities. A guest was arriving to stay a few weeks, a young Northern medical student coming to perform some experiments. Why he would come down to Georgia to do so was beyond Lesgles. Most of the other house slaves had been uninterested, or grumbled about the extra work, but he was always alert for opportunities. Changes in the household meant confusion, and in confusion it was easier to slip away.  


He clucked his tongue again, and the mare broke into a brisk trot. Her hooves churned up mud and stones on the road, though thankfully it was too humid for much dust. The rickety cart clattered down the road, jolting Lesgles along. The first time he had driven the contraption it had gotten stuck in a rut, and turned over with him in it. He’d had to crawl through the mud to get out from under the cart, and turn it over again, before going and finding the distraught horse that had managed to snap its harness in the fray. In retrospect it was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck, but thinking about what little luck he had seemed only to discourage fortune.  


He drove up the General store in the town, and left the horse hitched to a post outside. The General Store was a well-built affair, neat, straight, and no-nonsense. The paint was kept fresh and precise through careful care, and the door never squeaked on its hinges. He stepped into the cool interior of the store, and walked back to the counter. There was a display of cigars and other various kinds of tobacco on the front counter, framed by tall jars of sweets.

Behind the counter a young woman sat engrossed in her knitting. At the click of the closing door she looked up, meeting his gaze with a smile. She had vaguely foreign features, perhaps Spanish or Italian, with a tumble of dark ringlets, and dancing green eyes that lit up when she spoke. 

"Musichetta," he greeted her with a grin.

"Lesgles," she said, setting aside her sewing. She'd only been working at the store for a month, but already he preferred her to the sour young woman who had manned the counter before. She always had a smile and some interesting bit of news she had picked up around the town.

"Slow day?" he asked, gesturing at her knitting. On second glance it appeared to be a long blue scarf, almost knitted to completion. 

"Usually is," she said, standing up and stretching elegantly before turned to look at the clock. Her hair tied up in a tricolor ribbon, red, white, and blue against the dark curls. "It is a bit of a dull job. I keep myself entertained." She flashed him another smile. 

"Who's the scarf for?" he asked, unable to contain his curiosity. Around most people he kept his council, reluctant to show any captor his abilities or thoughts. Musichetta was different. She was a far cry from his masters, and he had never heard her speak down to anyone, white, black, or any other variety of human. She had insisted he call her Musichetta, and he complied when they were alone. And she always seemed to have news before the rest of the town, rumors that never reached the ears of the other shopkeepers. 

Knitting a winter scarf in the blazing heat of summer was just another oddity.

Musichetta laughed. "A friend," she said, the softness in her voice giving something else away.

Lesgles made a face. "Don't tell me you're running off to elope like the last girl here."

She laughed again, trying to smother the sound with her hands. "I'm not that kind of woman, Lesgles." Regaining her composure, she moved to the front of the counter. "Now, what can I do for you today?"

As he began to recite the list of supplies the cooks had given him, the door behind the counter swung open and in stepped the proprietor, Mr. Finch. He gave Lesgles an indifferent look, listening for a moment to what he was requesting from Musichetta.

"Mr. Marion have guests, boy?" he said, not so much looking at Lesgles but through him.

"Yes, sir," Lesgles said, nodding.

"What'll they be this time, huh? Balloonists?" he chuckled at his own joke. "Never will understand your master's preoccupation with that strange lot. Scientists." He shook his head. "Nicolette, do we have enough flour in stock to supply Mr. Marion's latest affairs?"

Musichetta nodded. "Yes, sir. Peter unloaded the shipment yesterday, remember?"

"Ah, yes," he said vaguely. He regarded her for a moment, before seeming to remember what he was going to say. "Boy, tell Mr. Marion Mr. Thenardier will be in town sometime later this week. He's got a new shipment, promised to bring them up so Mr. Marion can pick the prime specimens of the lot, breeding stock." 

Lesgles nodded again, smiling inanely to hide the anger coiling in the pit of his stomach. "I'll tell him, sir."

"Good," Mr. Finch said. "I'm off to see the Mr. Smith about that horse. Peter is out back if you need his help." With these words to Musichetta he put on his hat and went through the front door.

Once he was gone, Musichetta let out a sharp exhale, almost a noise of protest. Lesgles noticed her knuckles had gone white, clutching the edge of the counter, and the lines of her face were tight with... anger?

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

She let out another breath, and shook her head. "That old man still cannot tell me apart from the last girl," she said, tone distracted. "Will that be all your master requires then?" 

He checked his list mentally, and nodded. "Yes." Her eyes had gone cold, and he already missed their humorous light. "Perhaps it is Nicolette he remembers for a reason," he quipped, but the jest sounded tawdry and empty.

She shook her head, motioning him over, as if to check the paper she had written his order on. "I heard that two groups of slaves in Virginia escaped to the North last week," she said quietly, running her finger down the list.

He stiffened. "I haven't seen anything in the newspapers." He read everything he could get his hands on, and his masters' newspapers were the easiest thing. Perhaps not the most accurate, and full of opinions that made his blood boil, but at least they gave him some idea of the goings on in the outside world that seemed to be rarely discussed on the plantation.

"Not from the newspapers. From papers," she said, leaning over as if to dispute some point on the list and slipping her hand down into her bodice. For a moment his mind went entirely elsewhere, but she drew out a creased and smudged rectangle of paper, a pamphlet. She reached over and pressed it into his hands. "You might find this interesting. Just make sure it doesn't fall into other hands."

He stared at her, and decided inquiring at this moment would not be the best idea. Instead he smiled and said "I will treasure any token of your tender affections," with an exaggerated bow.

This drew another laugh from her, brightening her expression at last.  
***  
Joly reached into his coat, checking to make sure the papers were there again. His fingers met the paper, the high-quality forgeries that Jehan and Feuilly had spent hours pouring over and carefully fabricating, and the courser material of the diagrams and pamphlets. It was all tucked into a cunning little pocket Musichetta had sewed into the interior lining of his coat.

The afternoon heat was still stifling, though the sun had begun to sink behind the horizon. The air was heavy and humid, even inside the coach. Joly was jolted around on the bunch by each bump in the road.

He pressed himself up against the window, watching the landscape outside. It did little to distract him from his worries. His hand crept to the papers in his coat again, their reassuring crinkle soothing him slightly. He needn't worry, he told himself. Everything was in place. He merely had to... listen. Talk. Convince people.

He was no Enjolras, or Combeferre. He wasn't even Bahorel, with his easy laugh and and roguish charm, or Courfeyrac with her disarming smile and way of putting people at ease with a touch of her hand. He was Joly, a bundle of nerves and good cheer, not charismatic or clever or brave. Just Joly.

How was he supposed to win the trust of these people who had been subject to such misery for so long? How was he supposed to earn anything other than contempt from them? It was all well and good to speak of abolition, of the rights of humans and humanity, but he couldn't weave those words into something sublime and enthralling like Enjolras could. 

Joly pushed these thoughts away, winding his scarf tighter around his neck. The damp Georgian air crept through the crack between the floor and the door of the coach, pervading the air with the smell of mud and plant decay. It was common knowledge that climates like that of Georgia cultivated a plethora of maladies.

Combeferre and he had poured over Snow's alternative to miasma theory, and Combeferre swore that in a few years miasmas would be regarded as nothing but an antiquated joke. Combeferre, in his experience, was usually right. He tried to reassure himself with this, but it only let a new set of worries creep into his mind.

Suddenly he regretted his choice of clothing. The heavy air seemed to be leaden in his lungs, the coat tight and compressing his chest. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, trying to breath when the air felt like it had condensed into mud. 

He buried his face in the scarf and the smell of jasmine perfume overwhelmed the odor of the forest outside. 

The thought of green eyes dancing with humor and gentle, teasing words crowded out the worries, slowing the frantic beat of his heart. Slowly, he regained the ability to breath normally. 

It would be fine. He could do this. The coach turned up the long drive, going through the gate and up the front drive, passing immaculately pruned trees and lavish flowerbeds. The manor itself loomed at the end of the carefully-maintained path, a three story estate adorned with a beautiful veranda and carefully shaped balconies. 

As the coach drew to a halt in front of the manor, Joly checked the papers in his coat one last time, and then his tongue in the mirror again to reassure himself. Then, with one last adjustment of his scarf, he stepped out of the coach.

"Mr. Joly!" A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped from the shade of the veranda, smiling amiably. "How good to see you again." He held out his hand.

Joly smiled back, shaking the offered hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Marion. Thank you for granting me such generous hospitality."

The french honorific seemed to please the Southern man, and his grin widened. "Anything for such a charming and talented young doctor."

"Not quite a doctor yet," Joly corrected. "Only if I manage to fool my professors into giving me good marks next year."

"Only a shot away then," Mr. Marion chuckled. "Modesty, my friend, is a trait that is lauded uselessly. One can never gain anything from pointless modesty. I saw your latest study- brilliant analysis of Mesmer's theories. I'll be the first to tell you I never quite understood all that nonsense until you laid it out, and I have quite a mind for theories. I daresay it impressed your instructors."

That study had been a spot of good luck for Joly, drawing the attention of Mr. Marion and giving him his first opportunity to exercise the ideals he had been working for in the North. He blushed, looking away and doing his best impression of Provaire upon receiving a compliment to his verse. This too seemed the right thing to do- the plantation owner slapped him on the back and guided him up the the veranda. 

His suitcase and boxes of equipment were already being unloaded from the top of the coach by several muscular, well-dressed slaves. He moved to help them, but Mr. Marion stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"No need to tire yourself," Mr. Marion said with a humored little smiled that said he was amused by this Northerner's quaint notions. "Lesgles and Stephen will handle your equipment carefully." There was a trace of a threat in Mr. Marion's voice, and Joly had to restrain himself from jerking away from the man's grasp.

"...Thank you," Joly said after a moment, reminding himself that he had to keep his convictions to himself. Let this man think he was a harmless Northerner, merely unaware of how things worked in the South, as opposed to being opposed to this mistreatment of human beings with every fiber of his being.

"Not a problem. When is the stock arriving?" Mr. Marion inquired.

"The horses are coming via train on Tuesday," Joly said. His excuse for this trip to the South was replicating an experiment he had performed before, testing to see if setting up correctly aligned magnetic field could improve the performance of a horse. The tests had proved inconclusive, but the opportunity to see if there was any change in the results when the experiment was performed in a place closer to the equator provided a plausible excuse to visit his acquaintance. 

"Excellent. I have already had stalls prepared for them. Of what line are they from?" Mr. Marion inquired.

"From the line of a prize mare belonging to the de Courfeyracs," Joly said. 

"Ah yes. Old de Courfeyrac always had a fine eye for horseflesh," Mr. Marion nodded. "It's been far too long since I last saw the scoundrel. I've heard he's been ill?"

The conversation drifted into a discussion of the other prominent Southern families, many of which Joly had no knowledge of, but he found not much was needed, as long as he nodded and made understanding noises in the right places. It was a bit like listening to one of Grantaire's spiels.  
The inane conversation was interrupted when a woman stepped out of the front door, snapping a few sharp words over her shoulder at someone inside. 

"Darling," Mr. Marion broke off from his speculations as to the legitimacy of so-and-so's third son. "This is the Mr. Joly I was telling you about. Joly, this is my lovely wife, Annabelle Marion."

Joly took off his hat, bow to the woman. She had a pinched, almost consumptive look, her distraction evident by the murmured greeting and short glance she threw his way before taking her husband's arm and drawing him aside. Their murmured conversation was hasty and heated. Joly managed only to catch the words "get rid of... influence" from Mrs. Marion, and Mr. Marion's obvious denial, from the shaking of his head and the crease of his brow.

Joly replaced his hat, glancing around him once again. The last rays of light were fading in the west, and the outbuildings of the plantation were rife with activity, the slaves wrapping up a long day of work. He went around the veranda to watch them trudge in from the field behind the plantations to the shacks that functioned as their houses. Just the outer walls of their lodgings made Joly want to scrub his hands with lye. How could someone subject people to such inhumane conditions?

The slaves were a tough group of men and woman, more than a few of the exposed backs bearing the knotted welt of the lash.

He recalled seeing a study of the effects of repeated lashings on sailors, and shuddered. Of course no one had made such a study on slaves.

"Joly," Mr. Marion had broken away from his wife, who was left leaning on the veranda, digging her gloved hands into the woodwork and looking absolutely furious. "I apologize for the interruption. There's been a small problem with the discipline of a nigger." There was a slight hesitance in the statement, just the barest pause. Joly had spent the last year learning how to separate those trustworthy and those not, and the slight pause made him nearly sure there was something more than a slight problem with a slave at the heart of this argument. "I'll have Lesgles show you to your room." He stepped to the railing of the veranda and called out to one of the two men who had carried Joly's luggage inside, were was now unhitching the horse from the coach under the watchful eye of the white man who had met Joly in the town and driven him out to the plantation. He had introduced himself as an overseer at the plantation.

Lesgles handed the job over to the other slave, and brushed his hands off on his shirt before coming over to the veranda.

"Yes, sir?" he said, standing attentively on the other side of the railing. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, but held himself easily, and walked with a lightness of step Joly wouldn't have expected. There were the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes, though he couldn't have been more than a few years older than Joly, and wore relaxed smile that seemed to fit naturally into his features, though not into the setting.

"Lesgles, show Mr. Joly to his rooms," Mr. Marion said. "Joly, this is my man Lesgles. While you are here he will be completely at your disposal. He is fluent in both French and English, if you should find it more convenient to converse in your native tongue, and can assist you in your experiments." He spoke as if describing a prize rooster or stallion, and from the way he was beaming Joly seemed to be expected to share his enthusiasm.

"A helping hand would be much appreciated," Joly said hesitantly, looking Lesgles up and down. Perhaps this would be a start... His chest tightened again, and he gripped his cane tightly, trying to push the sudden apprehension away.

Lesgles was saying something to Mr. Marion, and then he beckoned Joly, and Joly followed, pondering over what on Earth he was supposed to say to this man to convince him of anything.

***

The vibrant blue scarf caught Lesgles's attention first.

It was odd enough to wear such heavy clothes in the sweltering Georgian sun, but he had seen that same scarf a few days earlier, under Musichetta's knitting needles. Was this the man she had alluded to? It seemed unbelievable. Musichetta was just a clerk in a small town in an even smaller store, and the medical student was from New York. But now that he thought about it, he realized Musichetta never had offered any explanation of why she had so suddenly moved to town, and she had gotten to town just as the position of clerk opened up.

Musichetta seemed entirely composed of enigmas.

Another one was the pamphlet she had pressed into his hands. It was gone now, thrown into the hearth in the sitting room after Mr. Marion had retired for the evening. He had been careful to collect the ashes from the grate the next morning, just in case some stray words of abolition and equality had survived the blaze.

But he had spent the night previous to that poring over the grubby sheets of paper, absorbing and memorizing each word. The pamphlet spoke of abolition, of suffrage, and of equality for all. Equality, Liberty, and the brotherhood of humans! it proclaimed, echoing half-forgotten lessons on the French Revolution. 

 

The words were passionate, but concise, alive with fiery conviction and yet grounded in the reality of slavery and oppression. Lesgles could tell those who had written it had been to the South before, seen the horrors and injustice with their own eyes, unlike the medical student who had been standing at the veranda gaping around him with an expression akin to a cornered hen. 

Lesgles couldn't help but stare himself, as he had unloaded the man's luggage and equipment from the coach, at those peculiar clothes and that vibrant scarf.

It was the same scarf. It had to be. 

As he struggled with the harness and the coach horse he pondered this, turning it over in his mind. Musichetta had solidified his theories on her political standing, provoked by her occasional whisperings of escaped slaves, with the pamphlet. Where did this medical student fit into the picture?

He cast a glance at the medical student over his shoulder. He was standing on the veranda, a few feet away from Mr. Marion who was caught in what looked like a vicious argument with the mistress of the house. The medical student was still looking around at the plantation with fascination and more than a little horror, taking in the sight of the slaves coming in from the fields, their hands and feet worn and bleeding, some of the older man and woman tottering on their feet and bent over from years of picking cotton. Barely able to stand at forty.

The terse summons from Mr. Marion snapped him out of his musings, and he left the untangling of the coach horse to Stephen, walking over to see what his master wanted. "Yes sir?"

"Lesgles, show Mr. Joly to his rooms," Mr. Marion said with a distracted air. 

Joly. It was a French name, like Lesgles's own. And when the medical student awkwardly thanked Mr. Marion for volunteering Lesgles, Lesgles could hear the lilt of an accent in his voice, just barely noticeable. 

Lesgles climbed the steps of the veranda and nodded politely to Mr. Marion, beckoning Joly. With a questioning glance at Mr. Marion, Joly followed Lesgles into the foyer of the mansion.

Lesgles held out his hand to take Joly's hat, cane, and coat. The medical student relinquished the first two, but refused to be parted with his coat, stating he was carrying some delicate component to his experiments. Lesgles had, out of self-preservation, become very good at reading people's word and expression, and it was easy to spot Joly's lie. This observation merely added to Lesgles's confusion.

He picked up two of Joly's suitcases, and Joly picked up a third automatically. Deciding not to say anything- as long as Mr. Marion didn't see he wouldn't complain- Lesgles said "This way," and headed up the grand staircase, with its sweeping curve and burnished bronze banister, and then up the more humble stairs to the guest rooms on the top floor. 

Mr. Marion was well off, and the elaborate furnishings of the guest room were merely another way to hammer that point home. Joly put his suitcase carefully in the corner, and looked around the room, uncertainty shining in his eyes.

"It's good to make your acquaintance," he said after Lesgles had set down the two suitcases he had been carrying. Joly held out his hand. "My name is Camille Joly."

After a pause Lesgles took his hand and shook it, unaccustomed to the gesture being directed at him. Joly's hands were small and long-fingered, a doctor's hands. "Lesgles," he said. "But you already knew that."

"Always better to know a person's name from their own mouth," Joly said, with a small smile, going to light the lamp affixed to the wall, before unwinding his scarf and carefully taking off his coat. In the lamp glow and dim evening light Lesgles got his first good look at Joly. Underneath the coat he was a slim man. His pale skin was dusted with freckles, and his hair was a dusty blond, and fell just a few inches below what was considered the height of fashion, and his clothing was fashionable but well-worn. Definitely not a dandy.

He realized he had been standing idly for several minutes, and turned to fetch the rest of the luggage. He found Joly following him, and together they carried the last suitcases up the stairs.

Once they had been set down with the first load of suitcases, Joly opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. Lesgles filled the silence with his own words. "You're right. It is better to hear a man's name from his own mouth. Sometimes it is the only thing that he owns," he said, walking to the door and pausing at it. "Dinner is customarily at seven o'clock. Mr. Marion will send me for you then." With that he slipped out the door, back down the stairs.

*** 

Joly sat on his bed, considering his strategy.

This man, Lesgles, was his opportunity.

If he could get the man to talk, that was.

Musichetta had said she spoken with Lesgles often in her post at the store. He was the slave that was trusted with the horse and cart, and sent to town to fetch supplies, but he was far from complacent. He had let slip to Musichetta a few words that hinted of his possible plans once or twice. She said he was well liked among the others. If Joly could gain his trust... they could organize this escape together.

He jumped to his feat, unable to sit still and be consumed by his worries. He opened his luggage and put his clothes away in the enormous wardrobe at the far end of the room, then took his compass from the pocket of his coat and put it on the desk. According to the compass's reading, he adjusted the bed, turning it so that the head was pointed towards the back window, which faced north. He unpacked his magnets and arranged them in mathematically correct points around the bed. 

Comforted by the familiar routine, he checked his pocketwatch and saw it was a full two hours until seven o'clock. He had gotten little sleep on the trip, and suddenly he was aware of how exhausted he was. He took off his shoes, careful not to disturb the magnets around the bed, and got under the covers.

Before one worry could creep into his mind he was fast asleep.

***

Lesgles knocked on the door of Joly's room, and then waited a few seconds. When there was no response he knocked again, louder. When this failed to provoke any response either he pushed the door open to look insider.

He stared. The entire room had been rearranged, the bed dragged to be facing vertically across the room and the other furniture pushed aside to make room for this. This rearrangement was accompanied by a scattering of what looked like magnets around the room.

Joly was curled up on the bed, his dusky hair spilling over the pillow, and his brows drawn together in an expression of concern. He rolled over, muttering something in his sleep.

"Mr. Joly?" Lesgles called softly, and then louder. Finally Joly lifted his head, looking around the room blearily until he saw Lesgles. He looked over at the clock on the wall. "Seven o'clock already?" he muttered, and continued, more to himself. "... severely weakens the body's systems.... lack of..." He stood up and smoothed out his clothing, attempting to fix the wrinkles in the cloth, before glancing again at the clock and darting past Lesgles.

Lesgles stood there for a moment, suddenly left alone in the room. He glanced around again in bemusement. His masters had their eccentricities, but none were so... odd.

He remembered hearing a crackle of paper when Joly leaned over wearing his coat, and caught sight of the same coat laid out on the bed. Joly had been insistent on keeping the coat with him...

His curiosity piqued, Lesgles listened for a moment to make sure no one was coming, before crossing the room, picking his way through the magnets around the bed. He reached into the pockets of the coats and found nothing unusual other than an extraordinary quantity of handkerchief. But when he picked up the coat he could hear the crinkling of paper. He laid it out carefully and examined the interior, spotting a little pocket.

He reached in and withdrew a collection of papers. It was a varied assortment of qualities and sizes, but those on top were a set of pamphlets like the one Musichetta had given him. The first one stated it had been written by E and C, the same initials named for the authors of the other pamphlet. The second was by F, and at a glance concentrated more on the plight of the workers in the North being compared to that of the slaves in the South, and urging both sides to take up arms against those that called themselves the people's masters.

Lesgles set these aside with difficulty, knowing he couldn't become too enthralled now. 

Below the pamphlets there were sheets of expensive-looking paper, embellished with rows of fancy script and flourishing signatures. Odd gaps had been left in the writing. He stared at the papers, for a moment not comprehending what they were, though he once had treasured one.

They were Freedom papers.

Dozens of them, ready with the undoubtedly false signatures necessary, and with blanks to be filled with the names and descriptions of the free black men and women.

Perhaps, for once, fortune had decided to favor him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is discussion of birds and not really discussion of birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of sexual assault

During his hurried flight down the stairs Joly managed to smooth out the worst of wrinkles in his vest and arrange his hair to be at least presentable. He chuckled ruefully about how disappointed Courfeyrac would be in him, and hoped that this man was the sort to regard doctors as the sort who got lost in their scientific musings, and thus were allowed to be a bit messy in their dress.

A slave standing at the foot of the stairs led him to the dining room. It was a grandiose space, with room on the expansive mahogany table at its center to seat a score of people. 

Mr. Marion and his wife were already seated at the table, Mr. Marion at the head and his wife at his right. He indicated for Joly to sit in the chair to his left, greeting Joly with a smile and a forgiveness for his tardiness conveyed through a wave of his hand. 

Joly listened to Mr. Marion’s long soliloquy on the pleasures of the South and of plantation farming, along with its trials and tribulations, without contributing much but quiet agreements or nods of his head. Time and again the plantation owner uses words like ‘breed’ and ‘stock’ in relation to the men that he owned, talking as if they were animals, while two slaves stood at attention in the room.

He wondered what that would be like, to be talked about like that as if you were a prized horse. It would be worse than being a nothing, he thought. If you are nothing you at least own yourself and have claim to your dignity. 

Though supper is traditionally a light meal, Mr. Marion clearly wanted to impress his guest with courses of expensive meats and exotic spices. The combination of the meat, which Joly always maintained as being terrible for the digestion, the careless condemnation of humanity his host was spouting with each remark on the order of the plantation, the wine which he downed with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm to drowned the words out made Joly feel a bit ill. 

At last the topic of conversation changed, as Mr. Marion seemed to finally notice his companion. He made polite inquiries on Joly’s medical education and the school he attended, and then on if he planned to write any studies after the experiment he was performing at the plantation.

“If all goes well, I would like to repeat my experiment with humans,” Joly replied. “This experiment with horses is merely a first foray into the mechanics of magnetism, and how it could benefit our daily lives.”

“In that case, you must return here,” Mr. Marion said. “There are enough subjects on my plantation to provide quite accurate data, I would thank, and it would spare you the trouble of gathering people at random.”

Joly was caught up short for a moment by this offer. “I… er… thank you for the offer, it is generous, but my idea hinges on… voluntary participants.”

Mr. Marion’s browsed creased. “Voluntary participants? Of course they would be voluntary participants. They know my judgment is to be trusted on matters such as that.”

Joly blinked, taken aback. “I…” he hid his confusion with a cough. “People without a certain level of education may be… frightened by the magnets and procedures, and it would be a long study. Heightened stress can produce ill effects on the body and skew testing.” He coughed into his handkerchief again, aware that the excuse sounded weak.

Mr. Marion took it in good humor, however, and the conversation continued. Throughout supper Mrs. Marion had barely spoken a word, or touched the food on her plate. She seemed to alternate between glaring at Mr. Marion and giving Joly suspicious looks.

Supper seemed to drag on and on, until finally the a few female slaves cleared away the last plates and Joly pleaded exhaustion when Mr. Marion suggested they move to the parlor and enjoy more wine and conversation. He escaped back up to his room.

Lesgles was in the hall on the second floor, affixing a new oil lamp to the wall. He greeted Joly with an “Evening, sir,” and Joly just barely managed to remember to mumble back “Evening.”

Of course he had heard about the horrors of slavery before, read the graphic and terrifying descriptions of the conditions and workload on the Southern plantations. He had even been to the South once, when he was a small child, traveling with his father. But those memories were old and muddled, and none of what he had read could prepare him for the sheer casual… he wasn’t even sure how to describe it.

He closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, as if he could block all of it out, then pushed away that thought angrily. It wasn’t something anyone should block out. His purpose was to fight against it. 

His coat must have fallen to the floor when he got up to go down to supper. He picked it up and took out the papers, checking to make sure each was there. The documents and the pamphlets. Joly frowned, shuffling through them. He could have sworn he put the pamphlets before the documents.

Not that he was terribly good at remembering things. He slipped the papers back into the inner pocket and draped his coat over the front frame of the bed, before changing into his nightclothes and blowing out the lamp. 

He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling and planning.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.

***

“That student looked like he might faint at supper tonight,” Mary said with a laugh, scrubbing the last of the dishes. Her hands were worn rough and red from the caustic soap, and there were deep lines around her eyes and mouth, but her smile had never lots its youthful charm.

Lesgles smiled. “Not used to the way things are around here, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t think a white man would be so bothered,” Anne said, standing on her tiptoes to put dishes into the cupboards. “They treat us like dirt, no matter if you’re free or no, North or South.”

“There’s a difference between looking down at someone on the street and keeping them in shackles their whole life,” Mary replied, brushing strands of hair out of her face. 

Mary shook her head angrily, setting down the stack of plates onto the shelf with more force than was warranted. Reaching up caused the sleeves of her shirt to slip down, and Lesgles could see the fresh bruises standing out purplish against her skin. He shuddered sympathetically.

“Has the master been…” he begun, and then trailed off, not sure about how to broach the subject. Anne was not the sort to which making light of a situation did any good with.

“What business of yours is it?” snapped Anne, turning on her heel to stare him down. “You talk too damn much. Did no one ever teach you when to keep your mouth shut?”

“Lesgles is just worried,” Mary said soothingly, drying her hands on her apron and putting a comforting hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. ”We all worry.”

“So I can’t be trusted to take care of myself?” Anne snarled, jerking away.

“I didn’t mean that,” Mary said, her tone still even. 

“We all have to look after each other,” Lesgles said.

This comment dulled the fire blazing in Anne’s eyes, and her shoulder slumped. 

“Go to Mrs. Marion,” Mary said gently. “She’ll stop it, out of common sense if nothing else. I’ll bet she won’t stand for her husband forcing you, and she’ll definitely not want any inconvenient bastards in her household.”

“I should be fine now,” she said, in a small, hoarse voice. “He never really forced me. I just…” she shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Mrs. Marion caught him at it. He’ll leave me alone now.” She fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve. 

Lesgles bit back the words he would have liked to say, and said instead, jovially, “Well Miss Mary, I can see they’ve kindly left us some of your fine cake, and it looks like there’s enough for three. It might restore a bit of your vigor.” He patted Anne on the shoulder. 

Instead of recoiling she brightened, her mercurial personality showing itself. She grinned. “Lesgles may talk too much, but when he shuts up you know he’s thinking of just the right thing to say.” She eyed Mary expectantly. “So how about that cake, Mary?”

“They won’t notice if we take a bit,” Mary said, sending a grateful look to Lesgles over the top of Anne’s head. “But quickly now, just in case the mistress decides tonight is a night for one of her inspections.”

Lesgles leaned against the wall and watched the two woman, wishing he could tell them his discovery, and not daring to breath a word of it lest he cause his breath of good luck to vanish like smoke.

***

Joly’s sleep was troubled, full of dark, twisted monstrosities and echoes of the day’s events. When he woke, for a minute he couldn’t recall where he was, but it all came crashing back. 

Light filtered through the curtains, and he could hear the birds singing outside. It was early and the air in the house was cool, as the sun had barely risen. He normally rose early, when he was well at least, to attend class or merely catch up on reading. The best mornings were those where you could afford to wake up, and then laze around peacefully until rousing yourself for the day. This was not one of those days.

He lay there for a moment, steeling himself for the tasks ahead. He would have to find some way of approaching Lesgles. 

Just as the thought occurred to him there was a knock on the door. Joly sat up and called “Yes?”

Lesgles’ muffled voice came back “Mr. Marion wishes me to inform you that breakfast is customarily at eight o’clock.” Joly glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. 

He rolled out of bed and stumbled over to the wasbasin. There was a pitcher of water waiting beside it, which he poured in and used to wash his face and hands. Thus invigorated, he donned a new set of clothes, made sure his papers were still secure in their coat pocket, and headed downstairs.

At breakfast Joly met Mr. Marion’s young daughter. His oldest, as Mr. Marion explained, had already married off, and his middle daughters had both died of a fever that had swept through the region some years before. His youngest, a pale, fragile little girl was watched over carefully by a black nurse, as she played with the nurse’s daughter.

As the horses for his experiment wouldn’t arrive until the next day, Mr. Marion invited him on a tour of the plantation before the full heat of the day set in. Joly agreed, and Mr. Marion ordered Stephen to saddle two horses to ride out and survey the fields.

The morning mist was just being burned off the landscape as they set out, and miasmas of smog circled in the air, blanketing Joly in their wet warmth. He coughed into a handkerchief, sure that whatever the air contained would infect his lungs with something terrible.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Mr. Marion called.

There was a certain charm to the fog and the flora and fauna, and Joly smiled, despite his worries. “It is,” he agreed. “It reminds a bit of-” the words died on his lips as they rounded a patch of trees, and the fields of the plantation were laid bare before Joly’s eyes.

The fields seemed to stretch on and on, though he knew Mr. Marion’s cotton fields were small compared to those of some of the other plantation owners. Among the rows of cotton hundreds of black workers knelt or stooped, scooping up the balls of cotton with their fingers bare fingers. They carried sacks, some of them already heavy with cotton.

Mr. Marion laughed. “Impressive isn’t it?” he flashed Joly a grin. “I’m always flattered to take a Northerner’s breath away. I would have thought not much could compare to your shining cities.”

Joly swallowed back the bile rising in his throat at the sight of the workers, many of them elders and children, plucking at the cotton plants. He watched as the spikes pricked a child’s hands, drawing blood. Mr. Marion followed his gaze and scowled. “That’ll ruin the cotton,” he muttered.

Pacing up and down the rows was the overseer, the man who had driven the coach to pick Joly up in the town. He was mounted on the back of a gray gelding, and held in his hand a coiled lash that could be only for one purpose. 

As Joly watched a middle-aged woman staggered and fell, her head drooping, chest shuddering with each breath. Instinctively Joly loostened his feet in their stirrups, moving to swing his right leg over to drop down to the ground and go to the unwell woman.

“That woman’s hurt!” he exclaimed, but Mr. Marion motioned for him to stay put.

As he moved the dismount the overseer steered his horse closer to the woman, and with a flick of his wrist brought the lash down upon her. She cried out and tried to get up, her breaths still coming quickly, sweat beading on her forehead. Joly could only stare as the overseer lashed her again, driving her to her feet.

Mr. Marion leaned over and caught Joly’s wrist. “Mr. Joly,” he said calmly. “I understand things may be done differently where you’re from, but do not interfere with the discipline of a worker.”

“Discipline?” Joly couldn’t hide his disgust.

Mr. Marion smiled thinly, spurring his horse onward and forcing Joly to do the same in order to continue the conversation. “It may seem distasteful, but it is far kinder than how a lazy worker would be treated in the North. In the North, if an employer found a worker idling the worker would be turned out on the street. We are much kinder than that.”

Joly bit back the words that burned on his tongue, his hands tightening on the reins. He must not offend his host, or he would not be able to help these people gain what was rightfully theirs’. But he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back, and his insides twisted at the sight of the bloodied woman leaning over a cotton bush, barely able to hold her head up.

***

Lesgles was just finishing cleaning out the last stall when the sound of hoofbeats on path up to the stable alerted him to the return of Mr. Marion and Mr. Joly. He set aside the pitchfork and went to take their horses in. 

He had been surreptitiously studying Joly, trying to get a measure of what sort of man he was. He was certainly out of place on the plantation, unused to the cruelties and appalled. This notion was only strengthened when he stepped out of the stable. Mr. Marion had dismounted and was offering his horse a lump of sugar, but Joly was still mounted, his hands gripping the reins as if though his life depended on it, though he sat like a competent rider. Beneath his freckles his face was pale.

“Mr. Marion,” Joly called, mustering up an approximation of a smile. “Would it be an imposition to take this mare for a ride? I have been cooped up in the city far too long, and fresh air is good for one’s health and mental functions.”

“Of course,” Mr. Marion gestured to Lesgles. “It would be best if Lesgles accompanies you, however. The trails around here can be tricky at best.”

Joly cast an uncertain look at Lesgles. Lesgles smiled and nodded, deciding to take Mr. Marion’s words as an order. Out in the woods there would be no one to hear their conversation, and perhaps he could get answers from Joly. “Certainly, Mr. Marion. I will have another horse saddled and be out momentarily.”

Mr. Marion stroked his mare’s nose. “You can take Clara,” he said, tugging on the horse’s lead rope, and holding it out to Lesgles. “She’s the only match for Rifle.”

Lesgles accepted the lead rope with a grin and a quiet, resigned sigh. Handling carriage and carthorses was one thing. It seemed fortune wasn’t so affronted by that she felt compelled to overturn every cart he drove. But unluckiness followed his every attempt at riding, and there were few horses he wanted to ride less than the spitfire young mare that was Mr. Marion’s prized horse. 

But it was an order now, and he might as well content himself with the fact that it gave him an opportunity to speak to Joly alone.

He stepped up into the stirrup, tried to swing himself over onto the horse, slipped, and got it on his second attempt. Glancing over at Joly, it didn’t appear his charge had noticed any of this. His eyes were fixed on his mare’s neck, face drawn into an expression of bleakness that didn’t suit his cheerful face.

“Shall I show you the trail then, Mr. Joly?” Lesgles asked.

Joly started. “Oh, um, yes. Thank you,” he said, rubbing his nose with his hand. 

He touched his heels gingerly to the mare’s sides. She snorted and tossed her head before stepping forward, jumping right into a brisk trot. Lesgles instinctively yanked back, and the mare danced sideways, shaking her head against the bite of the bit. He quickly slackened the reins, and nudged her again to get her moving forward.

Yet again they were off, at a pace Lesgles was entirely uncomfortable with. He could hear Joly’s mare behind Clara, but he didn’t dare take his attention of his own mount long enough to look behind him. The young horse seemed to sense her rider’s insecurity, and took every opportunity the put him off balance.

He managed to steer Clara down the path, to the trail that led into the patch of forest bordering the plantation. Clara slowed to a brisk walk, feeling she had shown her dominance over this clumsy lout, no doubt. Lesgles shook his head.

Rifle came up alongside Clara, guided by Joly, who was looking around him with interesting and apprehension. “The heat and the suffocating humidity make this state a perfect atmosphere for a plague,” he said, cheerfully conversational. The color had returned to his face, his cheeks flushed with the ride. 

Lesgles regarded him for a moment, the smiled and said “With my like it is much more likely we’re killed by an errant tree or lightning strike than by a plague. A plague is far too slow for my brand of misfortune.”

Joly laughed, his eyes lighting up with humor. But just as quickly the light died, his eyes focusing on something behind Lesgles. Lesgles turned to look. Through the light-dappled forms of the trees the fields of the plantation were just visible, the slaves bent over in the fields reduced to indistinct, tortured shapes by the light and distance.

Lesgles didn’t catch the whole sentence, but he heard Joly mutter something about Dante.

“Dante wrote of the condemned in hell,” he said mildly. 

”Not all condemned are imprisoned justly. Some of my friends would go so far as to say few are,” Joly responded, his eyes still on the field. He shook his head and spurred Rifle into a trot, and than a canter.

Lesgles touched his heels to Clara’s sides and she shot off, eager to outmatch her stablemate, leaving Lesgles clinging desperately to her neck and tugging at the reins. 

Joly finally reined in Rifle, dropping into step beside Clara and Lesgles again. “I have a friend who learned Italian just to read Dante. He reveres his work’s more apocalyptic writings. Have you studied many Italian works?”

The question was put forth so casually that Lesgles knew it must have weight. “Only in their translated state,” he said. “I only had liberty enough to learn two languages.”

“Do you know much of Leonardo da Vinci?”

“I know he was a painter in Italy during the Renaissance,” Lesgles said, eyeing Joly. “And he dabbled with inventions.”

“Da Vinci encompasses the spirit of progress! He had his eyes set on mechanics, philosophy, and the transcendent beauty of the world and all its people, while keeping a hand in the practical field of necessity and the needs of creatures. He would buy birds from the marketplace and free them, granting liberty, the most basic of all rights.”

Lesgles turned declaration over in his mind a moment before saying, with a wide smile that didn’t bely the severity of his words “All too well for da Vinci, putting on the air of generosity and deigning to help the poor, wretched creatures.” 

The bite to his words made Joly blink. “What do you mean?”

“This morning we woke to find a hole in the chickencoop, and three hens missing. Their half-eaten carcasses were found a few steps away, surrounded by the paw prints of the fox who had freed the chickens by accident while trying to get their eggs. The fox freed them only while fulfilling his own desires, and once these had been met turned upon them. Such are many who profess to help the unfortunate,” Lesgles kept his tone light, the idle wit of a fool criticizing a long-dead painter, if you only took one look at the conversation.

“Some people play at virtue only to elevate their own image,

Joly said, fiddling with the reins. For a moment he seemed to look beyond Lesgles, at something intangible in his thoughts perhaps, but then he focused back onto the conversation. “Da Vinci wasn’t one of these men. His virtue only attracted mockery, and was soon as a peculiarity at best. He freed the birds because as wild things, it was their birthright.”

“So Da Vinci took them from the prison of a cage to a prison of a place of his choosing, where they would be free- free to satisfy one man’s sense of morality, and stranded far from their homes most likely. I don’t see reason for applause there.”

“In the end, he was only dealing with birds,” Joly said, looking like he was fighting back a smile. “If he had had the ability to speak with them, I have no doubt he would have consulted their opinions on the matter as well.” He paused. “I certainly would have.”

Lesgles grinned, satisfied with Joly’s response. “If Da Vinci had been able to speak with the birds, maybe he would have had more luck with his flying devices.” 

“My friend Combeferre has some interesting theories regarding Da Vinci’s concepts of machines allowing people to fly…”

The conversation shifted to talk of other philosophers and inventors. Under any other circumstances the conversation would been interesting, but Lesgles’s mind couldn’t dwell in the past or the distance centuries ahead at that moment, when the future suddenly held so many possibilities.


	3. Chapter 3

As Joly and Lesgles rode down the trail they debated the merits of various centuries and the names that populated those eras. Somehow the conversation led from Italian inventors and philosophers to figures in more recent history. 

The name Charles Jean had just been brought up by Joly when evidently Clara decided she had had quite enough of all this talk, and made things exciting by suddenly bolting.

One moment Lesgles was racking his brain to remember which emeute Jeanne had been a part of, and the next he was hurtling down the trail at breakneck speed. In his scrambling for something to hang on he managed to drop the reins and barely got a hold of the pommel in time to stop himself from slipping off.

He was aware of Joly shouting behind him, but it took all of his focus just to hang on.

Rifle came up alongside Clara, spurred by Joly's heels. The powerful horse kept pace with the spitfire little mare easily, and Joly made a lunge to grab Clara's reins.

Clara picked up speed, pulling ahead of Rifle by a few strides. Lesgles's fingers were beginning to ache with the strain of hanging on and he had no hope of reaching the reins.

The mare was clever. She had realized that she couldn't unseat Lesgles with speed alone, so without warning she stopped herself short.

Lesgles barely had time to register this- one second he was clinging to the saddle desperately, the next he was tumbling through the air. His head made contact with something hard and his vision dissolved into a burst of colors and his thoughts were scattered into a haze of pain.

Dimly he was aware of the cool earth beneath him and the smell of rotting leaves. Someone was saying something, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. 

He rolled over and lifted his. Joly's face swam in his vision, staring down at him with concern. He had to blink a few times before patches of color stopped floating across his line of sight.

"Are you alright?" Joly asked anxiously, hovering.

Lesgles put a hand to the side of his head, where the throbbing pain was radiating from, and it came away wet with blood. "I'm fine," he said unsteadily. He managed to get himself into a sitting position, though the surge of pain and nausea that ran through him at the movement almost made him flop back down.

Joly made a little distressed noise and knelt by Lesgles, searching in his pockets for a clean handkerchief, which he pressed against the gash.

Lesgles flinched and almost pulled away, unused to this assistance, but then thought better of it and accepted Joly's ministrations with a good-natured grin. He didn't quite trust the medical student, but he was fairly sure his heart was in the right place.

"I take it that Clara holds with the opinions of her master, and loathes all talk of Revolutions and revolutionaries," Lesgles quipped to distract himself from Joly's poking and prodding as he cleaned the wound.

"Perhaps she harbors revolutionary tendencies, and merely didn't want to be reminded of failed attempts," Joly mused, his attention focused on Lesgles's injury. He proodded the area around the wood lightly with his fingers. "Does that hurt?"

Lesgles winced away. "I question your abilities as a doctor if you have to ask that."

"Medical student," Joly corrected absentmindedly. "As far as I can tell, your skull isn't fractured. However-"

Joly was reaching over to prod at his skull again, so Bossuet stood up to try to demonstrate how unnecessary this was. All the blood drained from his face and Joly was barely on his feet in time to keep him from falling.

"- head injuries often cause dizziness and disorientation," Joly finished, helping Lesgles sit down. "They also are more prone to heavy bleeding then other injuries." He pressed the handkerchief to Lesgles's head again.

The world refused to reorder itself in a way that was anyway logical, so he closed his eyes. He hadn't quite understood Joly's words, but the meaning rang through. He was worried. Concerned. Anxious about Lesgles's wellbeing.

It shouldn't have felt so odd.

He pushed the thought away and tried to stop Joly's fussing with a laugh, reaching up to hold the handkerchief in place himself and gently ease Joly's hand away. "You needn't worry yourself, my head is too hard for knock like that to do much damage. It was the one thing fortune gifted me before cursing my luck. That way she could make me her fool longer."

Cracking open an eye told him that the world had ceased to spin, and Joly hadn't moved an inch, and if anything was regarding him with more concern than before. "Head injuries can cause disruption of the thoughts that can-"

Lesgles opened his eyes fully and used his free hand to clap Joly on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not confused. I am played by luck far more often than I'd like, and I'm being perfectly coherent." He realized the familiarity of the gesture and withdrew his hand.

Joly hadn't flinched, but was eyeing him dubiously. "In any case, I'm afraid we'll have to walk back to the plantation, once you feel strong enough. The gait of a horse bounces the skull too much to be good for a man with a head injury."

Internally, Lesgles breathed a sigh of relief. It would have taken a lot to get him back on that horse. 

Joly withdrew a flask and a few strips of bandages from his coat, gently moving Lesgles's hand that held the handkerchief aside to get another look at the wound.

Lesgles winced. "You just happen to carry around bandages on outings? You are no doubt the most well-prepared medical student in the country."

Joly laughed. "A habit that springs from my friends," he replied, unscrewing the lid of the flask.

"Your friends must be even more prone to accident than I."

"No," Joly said, chuckling. "Just very... outspoken. They've sparked more than one brawl." He wetted one of the bandages with the flask, and Lesgles caught the scent of brandy. 

"Wha-" he began, but before he had time to articulate the question Joly had pressed the alcohol-soaked bandage to the wound on his head and he had to clamp down on the word to keep from making a noise. 

Joly withdrew the brandy-soaked bandage a minute later, apparently satisfied with what he saw, and handed the flask to Lesgles. "It'll help balance your humors. You're taking this very well."

Lesgles laughed, taking a swig from the flask. "My humor fairly needs restoration," he said. "But the application of spirits, especially fine, high spirits, can boost any humor."

Joly's laughter made him fumble the wrapping of the bandages, and he forced his mouth into a line, trying to restrain it. It was a rather endearing expression, despite the little jolt of pain his slip sent through Lesgles's head.

When the bandaging was done, Lesgles remembered the horses. He had a moment of panic, which he quickly covered with another easy smile. "I have to see about that treacherous steed," he said, trying to stand. "The master will be in a very foul temper if I don't return her in prime condition."

"Don't worry," Joly said, stopping Lesgles's attempts to stand with a wave of his hand and a gesture to behind where he was sitting. Lesgles turned to see Clara nibbling on the grass beside the path contentedly, right alongside Rifle. She seemed to look up for a minute and Lesgls could have sworn the little whickering sound she made was laughter.

He shook his head and took another mouthful of brandy.

***

Upon their return, Joly had firmly established with Mr. Marion that the little mishap on the trail had been entirely his fault, and without Lesgles's quick action Joly himself would have been hurt. Mr. Marion looked a little skeptical, but accepted this story without protest. 

Lesgles followed Joly to his rooms, and then lingered at the doorway while Joly hung up his coat on the edge of the chest of drawers, washed his hands in the basin and checked his tongue in his hand mirror. He then started to rifle through his notes, though magnetism was the farthest thing from his mind at that moment.

"Do you need anything?" Lesgles said, watching Joly sort through the notebooks and loose sheets of paper from one of his trunks.

Joly opened his mouth to say no, then noticed the way Lesgles was leaning on the doorframe. Mr. Marion has assigned Lesgles to see to Joly's needs primarily while Joly was there, and if Joly sent him away he would no doubt spend the rest of the day working. His injury didn't look too dangerous, but head injuries were volatile things, and the best thing for them was rest and careful observation by a doctor. Joly was just about the closest thing Lesgles could get, most likely.

"Yes, actually. Could you help me sort through these notes?" he said, smiling ruefully. "I'm not very organized, and I'd like to have them ordered by date for future reference by tonight, since the horses are arriving tomorrow."

Lesgles nodded, and Joly motioned him over to sit beside him on the floor, handing him a stack of notebooks to sort through while Joly tackled the loose leaves of paper.

Joly, with the occasional input from Combeferre, had compiled a substantial amount of notes on the theories of magnetism and his previous experiments, and it took a while to get all the sheets organized. He responded to Lesgles's inquiries on his studies readily, chattering away about iron in the bloodstream being drawn by magnets and how this could be used to influence the flow of the humors through the body.

After a time he realized all the notebooks had been stacked in a neat order, and Lesgles had dozed off leaning up against the side of Joly's bed. Joly finished sorting through the sheets of notes, and put the ordered notebooks and notes carefully up on the small desk.

It was only then he noticed the tightness in his chest, the effort it took to breathe in the thick Georgian air, even within the house. 

I'm dying. It was the first thought that popped into his head, and though logically he dismissed it as highly unlikely, logic didn't loosen the knot forming in his chest as his mind flitted through all of the swamp-born illnesses that he had studied. He'd expanded his knowledge in preparation for the trip, and though it had eased his worry at the time it only made things worse now.

He fumbled for his handmirror but the sun had begun to sink behind the horizon, and he couldn't see his reflection clearly enough to check his tongue. He tried to stand up, but a rush of lightheadedness forced him back to his position on the floor, where he remained, trying to remember how to breath.

Joly could not possibly succeed. How could he ever gain the trust of the slaves? How could he ever show he wanted to help them? Why had he ever imagined he could do anything like this, how could he imagined it would help? He would get them all killed. He wouldn't do anyone any good. Maybe he was only trying for his own satisfaction.

And he couldn't breath and his heart was racing and now he couldn't remember what it could be but he knew he was dying.

The doubts tumbled around his mind at an increasingly rapid speed. He dug his fingernails into the wood of the floor, trying to push the thoughts back, to think of anything else. His teeth were clamped together so as not to make a sound and wake Lesgles.

Casting around for something else, anything else, he remembered a speech Enjolras had made at the Musain the night before Joly left for Mr. Marion's estate. He forced himself to go over the memory again, to remember the way the lamplight had glinted off Enjolras's hair and his fierce blue eyes. But he was no poet- the details he remembered best were the dark circles under Enjolras's eyes and the slight rasp in his voice and the way he had almost collapsed into Courfeyrac's embrace afterwards because those were the things he noticed, those were the things he remembered, and they weren't helping at all.

He turned his mind to Enjolras's words instead, trying to remembering the phrasing of the speech, a fiery oratory declaiming the Fugitive Slave Act. He could only recall bits and pieces of Enjolras's phrasing, but trying to piece it together distracted him. He remembered Enjolras stating it was not only at its base wrong, as it supported slavery, which ignored all of the tenants of liberty and human rights that all should hold in common, it punished those who upheld liberty and did what was right. Furthermore it was yet another government edict that called human beings property and treated them as such, not even giving fugitive slaves a cursory trail.

A knock on the door startled Joly out of his thoughts. He got to his feet as a quiet female voice informed him that supper was about to be served. His voice was slightly shaking in replying, but he could stand, and his heart had slowed back down to its normal pace. He know recognized the lightheadedness for what it was- hunger, since he had eaten little at breakfast and been out riding during the midday meal. 

Turning to the chest of drawers to retrieve a new set of clothes to replace the ones he was wearing, which had been smudged with mud and horsehair during the incident of the trail, he notices Lesgles had woke and was looking around him with some confusion. When he saw Joly he scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly but shaking the evident dizziness off. 

"I'm sorry, I-" he began, his tone slightly panicked as he absorbed his surroundings.

"It's fine," Joly said, taking a clean waistcoat from the drawer. "Completely."

"The master- I-" Lesgles tripped over his words, still looking slightly bewidlered.

"I'm not going to go report you to Mr. Marion," Joly said. "I'm not going to begrudge you rest after bashing your head around like that. It would be just what I would order, had I been your doctor."

Lesgles considered this for a moment, and slowly his usual good-natured smile returned to his face. "Much obliged," he said. "I should report down to the kitchen now, if you're going to supper?"

Joly nodded and stepped out of his way, noting with approval the marked improvement in his balance.  
The next day dawned cloudy. When Lesgles rose, just as the sun was beginning to creep out over the trees, the air was already thick and muggy. There was hardly a stir of wind to cool the air, and the walk between the house saves' cottages and the manor left his clothes soaked with sweat. 

Mr. Marion informed him he was to go into town to pick up the horses that had been shipped down for Joly's experiments, and just as he was harnessing the team of carthorses that would be hitched to the larger cart, Joly appeared with the intention of joining him in the ride to town, ostentatiously to check on the horses before they loaded them into the carriage. 

Despite the oppressive heat Joly was still wearing his scarf, though he had switched his heavy coat for a lighter jacket. His wide gray eyes surveyed Lesgles, looking for damage from the day before, before meeting Lesgles's. Lesgles returned his smile and motioned for him to climb into the carriage while Lesgles made the final adjustments to the horses' harnesses.

Satisfied, he climbed into the driver's seat, slapping the reins lightly on the horses' necks to start them off at a brisk walk. 

It occurred to Lesgles once they were through the gate and out on the empty road it was the perfect time to inquire about the pamphlets and the freedom papers. 

This man was sympathetic to the slaves, and it wasn't a matter of principal. He had come prepared for something, obviously, and had tested the waters with his conversation with Lesgles in the forest.

"I would think," he said lightly, once they had gone about a mile. "That a scientist would be more accustomed to carrying volatile substances than volatile words."

Joly looked up sharply, a look of alarm flashing across his face that he quickly got under control. "Words can create changes and reactions that chemicals cannot. They can remedy the sickness that cannot be touched by medicine." He considered. "So long as they are matched by equal doses of action."

Lesgles laughed out loud, startling Joly again. "Mr. Joly, you can be plain with me. I share your convictions and hold many more along the same vein, which should be obvious."

Joly looked away. "I only..."

"I saw the papers. The first night you were here," Lesgles said, his tone still light. Seeing Joly expression, he said "What man could resist? I made the connection between you and our lovely shopkeeper, and she had given me rather seditious materials to give me dangerous ideas." He chuckled. "What man would pass up an opportunity at his freedom? I sought to find out what I could."

"And what did you find?" Joly asked warily.

"You want to help us," Lesgles said.

"Yes," Joly said.

"Do you have a plan?" Lesgles asked.

"I do," Joly replied.

"Then I will help you," Lesgles said, flicking the reins again so the horses picked up their pace into a trot. "Da Vinci and his birds, remember?" He chuckled.

Joly flushed. "It... it was far from an apt metaphor only... the one that circumstances made obvious."

"It is unforgivable perhaps more for its sheer bludgeoning unsubtly, though I suppose it gets your point across well enough, to some people. I would suggest crafting a new one if you plan to make a habit of it, however."

Joly met his glance with a smile and a hint of steely determination in his eyes. "I do."

"Then I will join you in the endeavor," Lesgles said. "I'm not eager to throw myself at the mercy of another white man, but I'd gladly join in partnership to a scheme like yours." He realized he already trusted Joly- the man had proved, seemingly without intent, that he was decent and trustworthy. "Your actions spoke louder than your feathered allusions. But you can't keep us in the dark if you plan to help us." He gave Joly one of his easy smiles, which Joly tentatively returned.

"I won't," he said earnestly.

"You know what you're doing?" Lesgles asked.

Joly laughed softly. "This is my first time doing this, but I'm part of a larger group that has been doing similar tasks for a few years. We're called Les Amis d'ABC."

Lesgles considered this for a moment, then laughed. "A society built on a pun. If nothing else, it proves good taste."

"Enjolras made it up," Joly said laughing. "Combeferre said he was so proud of himself, he couldn't stop using it excessively for a week. Of course, it sounds odd if you don't know French, but it stuck."

"I can see why," Lesgles said. "Is Enjolras the author of some of those pamphlets you have?"

Joly blinked, but took this in good grace. "Yes. He's our leader, the one that started the whole society. Well, Enjolras and Combeferre."

E and C. "And you joined it later?"

"Last year," Joly said. "I met Combeferre at the medical school, and then Musichetta under some... interesting circumstances, and Musichetta was a friend of Bahorel, another of the Amis... and to make a very long story short both me and Musichetta joined its ranks."

Lesgles grinned. "I knew Musichetta had too many opinions to have come to clerk at that store by coincidence."

Joly smiled, his eyes getting the same faraway look Musichetta's had when Lesgles had asked her about the scarf she had been knitting. "She's a fine woman. A fine person. Clever as a cat, and twice as quick."

"Are societies like yours common?" Lesgles asked. He tried his best to ignore the twinges of embarrassment that came with the question. The answer would be obvious to any Northerner, and perhaps even his Southern master. But slaves were kept ignorant of such things, of course.

"Common in the Northern cities," Joly said. "The movement for abolition is only growing. Les Amis d'ABC are allied with a dozen other similar societies, and there are many more besides. Some are not as dedicated as ours, but many are. Many work to sneak slaves out of the South by any way possible. Some of these groups are made up of former slaves, who risk their lives and freedom to return and help their fellows, are made up of students and workers and women who want change. Some are a mix."

Lesgles nodded. The pamphlets had spoken a little of the escaped slaves who returned to help others escape, and he had heard a few rumors from slaves bought from other areas of the country. "What is your group made up of?"

"Mostly students of some variety," Joly said. "Along with factory workers. We have a variety of allies too, scattered around the North and the South, safe places to go when bringing the slaves up to Canada."

Canada. In Canada, slavery was outlawed, and he might start a new life. But in Canada he could do nothing to help those that were still imprisoned.

He might have said something along these lines, but a sharp crack and a jolt tore him away from his thoughts as the cart tipped forward, the wheels turning upwards. Lesgles managed to grab onto the back of the bench before he slipped off of it, catching Joly by the collar before he could fall in front of the dragging cart. 

The placid carthorses slowed to a stop, looking back in mild annoyance at the sloping cart. 

"Broken axle," Lesgles said, jumping from the cart and pulling Joly after him. "At least we didn't lose the horses this time."

Joly blinked, looking at the wrecked cart. "This happens often?"

"At least twice a month. Fortune doesn't favor me," Lesgles said, unhitching the horses so he could get a better look at the damage. He handed the horses' reins to Joly and knelt by the cart. The front axle had snapped cleanly.

"Misfortune, or a shoddy blacksmith," Joly said.

Lesgles laughed. "Benjamin does good work, and our master lends him out as a farrier to all the plantation owners. Our horses rarely lose their shoes, unless I'm the one riding, and I've never heard of a broken axle on one of Mr. Marion's carts, unless I was riding it. Fortune has demonstrated time and time again that she is set against me. Perhaps I insulted her when I was a child, because I've been unlucky for as long as I can remember."

Joly blinked. "Coincidences, I'm sure."

"You're a man of science," Lesgles nodded approvingly, standing up and dusting his hands off. "However, my little rounds with fortune can't be explained away by tosses of Providence's dice, else Fortune gave Providence loaded dice." He shook his head. "It's the only explanation. Broken axles, lost socks, broken bones, lost freedom..." Lesgles laughed. "It's all the same to Fortune."

Joly looked like he was about to say something, but instead clasped Lesgles's shoulder. "Perhaps Fortune is favoring you now, and giving you your freedom."

"She's already stolen it once," he said with a smile. "So I suppose she might return it. But don't speak of it like that, or you might change her mind." He looked away from Joly to the cart. "In any case, she doesn't favor us today. We'll have to walk to rest of the way- I can rig something up so the horses can pull the cart to town, but not with our weight on it. We'll have to get it fixed before we can bring your horses back."

Joly smiled. "That's fine, it'll give us an excuse to work on the plan out of the earshot of others, and coordinate with Musichetta." He took the news of the long walk that awaited them with similar good cheer. 

"What is your plan?" Lesgles asked, realizing he had been too caught up in making his terms clear to Joly to ask.

"Once we join Musichetta, her and I can explain," he said. "She has some of the key pieces. Suffice to say, it involves boxes and horses."

Lesgles wasn't sure which part of that statement he liked least, but he would reserve judgment until he had heard the entire plan.

Lesgles made makeshift repair to the axle, while Joly chattered on about Les Amis d'ABC. The more he said about the society, the more Lesgles wanted to meet those involved, and become involved himself. But perhaps Joly was different from the others. Wanting to free the slaves and welcoming them into your social groups were too very different things.

Their conversation continued as they started off again towards the town. Lesgles learned there were seven other key members of Les Amis- Enjolras, the leader, Combeferre, the medical student who had recruited Joly, Courfeyrac, a southern heiress whose ideals were as contrary to her upbringing as anyone could be, Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire, two law students fond of shows of physical and emotional power respectively, Feuilly, an immigrant factory girl, and a photographer called Grantaire who contributed while vehemently declaring the uselessness of their endeavors and the entire cause. Joly's vibrant descriptions of each of his friends were animated and entertaining, and he had countless anecdotes, but behind all of them were the ideals that they all shared. They were only seven people, seven people Lesgles had never met, but it was heartening nonetheless. He would take his cheer where he could.

As they neared the town the clouds darkened, and opened up, pouring down onto the two. Joly had his scarf and jacket, but Lesgles had worn only his shirt, which was thoroughly soaked in minutes. 

Joly noticed this with alarm. "You'll catch a chill, if not consumption!" he exclaimed. "However will we free your comrades then?"

Lesgles laughed. "I may not have luck, but I've always had good health." He nudged Joly gently. "Your education has made a hypochondriac of you."

Joly laughed. "I've always been a hypochondriac," he said, unwinding the scarf from his neck and draping it over Lesgles. "Now we shall both catch a chill, but perhaps you'll be spared consumption."

"One can hope," Lesgles said with a chuckle, wrapping the scarf around his neck.

It was past noon by the time they reached the town, and the downpour had yet to cease. 

Joly's horses had been shipped down in large livestock boxes, with air slats on the top and a water trough and bale of hay inside each. The horses looked worse for the wear from their journey, their coats dull and their eyes listless. Joly arranged for them to stay in the stables of the town's inn until they could be transported back to Mr. Marion's estate, while Lesgles brought the cart to the town blacksmith to arrange for a replacement axle.

The very earliest the blacksmith would have the new axle ready was the next morning, and the horses Joly had shipped down needed respite from their terrifying journey before being fit to ride, much to Lesgles's relief.

"We'll just have to stay the night here," Joly said with a shrug when Lesgles relayed this news to him. "Like I said, it will give us time to discuss things with Musichetta and reevaluate our plan."

***

Musichetta scribbled down John's purchase into the books, waving goodbye to the young slave. The poor boy had been sent out into the rainstorm by Mr. Marion to fetch a pound of sugar that would no doubt be ruined by the rain by the time he reached the plantation. She shook her head, twisting a curl of her hair between her fingers. 

The sound of voices from the porch of the store caught her ears and she looked up to see Joly and Lesgles talking with John. Both looked ill-prepared for the weather, their clothes soaked through with rain. 

After a moment longer they exchanged goodbyes with John and Joly pushed the door open. As they came in Musichetta's shrewd gaze took in Joly's scarf around Lesgles's neck and Lesgles's apparent ease in Joly's presence. She smiled. Joly could win anyone over with his sheer kindness and joy.

"Joly, Lesgles," she called from her place behind the counter. 

"Musichetta, darling," Joly said, crossing the room to her. She glanced at the back door of the store before coming out from behind the counter and pulling him into a kiss. It seemed like such a long time since they had had more than a few moments together. Musichetta had always been used to being alone, looking after herself, and she hadn't noticed how accustomed she had grown to Joly's presence, or realized how much she would miss it. 

He returned her kiss with equal intensity, and perhaps would have been carried away if she hadn't broken it off a moment later, rememvering Lesgles's presence. He stood there, looking away sheepishly, and Musichetta laughed. "We're becoming a spectacle, Joly, and getting quite distracted," she said fondly. "I take it your have surmised our purpose then?" She directed the question towards Lesgles.

He nodded, looking between them. 

"Excellent," Musichetta said, going to the front window to scan the street. The weather had driven most people to seek refuge inside, and only the occasional pedestrian hurried by, eager to find shelter. "Has he told you of our plan?"

"Only that it involves horses and boxes," Lesgles said, casting Joly a look. "He swore that you could explain in such a way that didn't sound foolhardy."

Musichetta laughed, going back down behind the counter to pull a roll of paper from a drawer. "I will make no such promises, but only assure you it has been talked through countless times by all manner of people, and improved on their advise." She spread out the paper on the counter. "Your input would be even more valuable, since you know your master and the area."

Lesgles stepped forward to examine the diagram sketched out on the paper as Joly and Musichetta explained their plan.


End file.
